"He must not come here. I will cross his path, and warn him to shun the presence of the Borgias, as he would a den of vipers! But, if thou wouldst see him, he will be in my humble home, half an hour hence. Wilt come?"
"I will."
"'T is well;" and, without another word, the old woman hastened from the apartment.
"I must know the truth of these suspicions," soliloquized Donna Lucretia, as soon as she was alone. "Heaven grant that Mercado may not be harmed—for all my hopes are centred in him; and, should they ever be crushed, eternal night will be the inheritance of Lucretia Borgia!"
II.
THE MASK OF ST. PETER'S.
The steps of St. Peter's. Standing in the shadow of one of the massive pillars was a broad-shouldered, powerful-looking man, wearing a large cloak around his form, and a black mask over his countenance. There was nothing particularly repulsive in the appearance of the mask; but—and it seemed singular—all who gazed thereon shuddered, and crept noiselessly away, looking fearfully behind them, as if they had seen some horrid vision. There must have been something horrible in the character the possessor of that mask had acquired, to make him so carefully shunned by all who chanced to pass in that vicinity—and, indeed, there was.
An elderly man, clad in a humble garb, passed up the steps, at last, and paused before the mask. There was no fear expressed in his face, as his eyes met those of that
